


Never Bored

by philalethia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Collars, Facials, Hair stroking, Leg Humping, M/M, Pet Play, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Puppy Play, Scent Marking, Urination, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-09
Updated: 2015-02-09
Packaged: 2018-03-11 09:51:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3323048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philalethia/pseuds/philalethia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock makes a comment about the dullness of their sex life, so John sets out to rectify the problem . . . by bringing home a dog collar and a rubber ball and offering to piss on Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Bored

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rutobuka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rutobuka/gifts).



> Disclaimer: If you find the idea of urination in a consensual sexual context super gross, you should probably skip this story. It includes a person being urinated on and tasting someone else's urine. Please do not read if you think this will upset you!

That there was a perverse sexual element to the murder of Adam Taggert, age 37 and newly divorced, was undeniable. The leather cuffs, the ball gag, the vibrator (its batteries completely drained), not to mention the traces of fresh semen—it was so obvious even Lestrade had seen it.

Also obvious was that the man had had at least one profile on an adult website. It had taken Sherlock less than a half hour to find it.

“Quite a long list of fetishes,” he told John, gleeful at his own cleverness. “Breast bondage, cuckolding—that’s a sort of fetish for cheating—fire play, foot jobs, hypnotism, orgasm denial, piss play, puppy play—that’s when—”

“I know what it is,” John said, sounding peevish. Of course: he never liked when Sherlock assumed he didn’t know something. Perhaps in this instance, given his previous sexual experience as compared to Sherlock’s lack, he even considered it a personal affront.

Sherlock noted this and moved on. “Hm. Certainly makes our sex life seem a bit dull in comparison, doesn’t it?”

It was several seconds before Sherlock realised that John hadn’t responded to that, and suddenly the ridiculous cliché about the temperature of a room decreasing seemed quite apt. Looking over his computer screen at John—who was facing away, his shoulders tense and his hands clenched into fists—Sherlock felt a chill roll through him.

“Right,” John said. His tone was curiously blank. “Okay then. I’m going to… pop out for a bit.”

Then he fetched his coat and left without another word.

_Interesting,_ Sherlock thought, blinking after him. That deserved some consideration.

*

In the end, it was just as obvious as Adam Taggert’s murder. The issue of a “dull” sex life was clearly a sore spot for John. Probably a previous partner, perhaps multiple ones, had accused him of being boring.

After all, John favoured the missionary position, disliked bondage, refused to sexualise his medical or military experiences, and would only consent to a bit of roughness if Sherlock explicitly requested it. An idiot might’ve thought that made him _dull_. And although Sherlock wasn’t an idiot, the rest of humanity seemed to be.

Fine. Sherlock had had decades of experience mitigating the idiocy of everyone else. He could lessen John’s insecurities, assure him that Sherlock had no desire to engage in breast bondage or foot jobs or whatever else and was more than content with the sorts of sex they already had. Even if certain items on Taggert’s list did sound… intriguing. The orgasm denial, the piss play, oh, for John to piss on him like an animal, to mark him undeniably as John’s….

Sherlock filed that thought away for the moment. A fantasy to indulge in later.

John was gone hours, during which Sherlock solved Taggert’s murder—he thought, although he’d have to return to the crime scene to verify his theory—and drank two cups of tea. When John finally returned, he was straight-backed, his jaw clenched with determination, and carrying a plastic shopping bag, which he dropped into Sherlock’s lap.

“Here,” he said gruffly. “Try that on for size.”

The first item Sherlock found inside was a light-blue-coloured rubber ball. The second was a collar: cheap leather, black in colour, with a silver buckle and a silver D-ring in the centre.

“It’ll have to be you,” said John, removing his coat while Sherlock laid the two items side by side on the arm of his chair. “With my shoulder and my leg—not sure I’d be up to crawling round on the floor for very long.”

_You always underestimate yourself,_ Sherlock thought but didn’t feel compelled to point out. That might’ve been misconstrued as further proof that Sherlock believed their sex was lacking. “John, I think you’ve misunderstood—”

“Besides,” John said, speaking loudly over Sherlock, “I think you’ll like the opportunity to be a good boy for me, won’t you?”

It was as effective as a punch to the throat. Sherlock could scarcely breathe, much less speak, and even swallowing seemed a challenge. John knew him so well it was equal parts alarming and thrilling.

_Oh_ , he thought, nearly shuddering. _Oh god, yes._

John smiled and came even closer, until Sherlock had to spread his thighs wide to give John room to stand between them. “Of course you will. You love being good for me, don’t you?” He laid his hands on Sherlock’s head, sinking his fingers into Sherlock’s hair, and Sherlock sagged forwards, resting his cheek against John’s jumper and curling his arms round John’s waist. “Good boy. Could you put your new collar on for me while I use the loo?”

But Sherlock couldn’t convince his arms to unwind. In fact, they tightened, his fingers clutching the back of John’s trousers. He turned so that his face was buried in John’s belly.

“No?” John said. “You don’t want to?”

“Stay,” Sherlock mumbled. _Stroke my hair and tell me how good I am_ , he didn’t say, although he thought it loudly enough that John should’ve understood anyway.

“Ah I see. I have a needy puppy, do I?”

It should’ve felt… strange. Degrading. Unnatural. But John said it so fondly, while he was still stroking Sherlock’s hair so tenderly, that Sherlock only felt pleasure, spreading through him like a warm mist.

“Okay,” said John. “Greedy boy. I’ll stay and help you put your collar on.”

Putting Sherlock’s collar on apparently involved removing Sherlock’s clothes first, even his pants and his socks, which John managed without even requiring Sherlock to stand from his chair. Once Sherlock was nude, John put the collar on, buckling it loose enough that he could slip two fingers between it and Sherlock’s throat. It felt surprisingly… comfortable. Safe and steadying, somehow.

When Sherlock had been properly collared, John stepped back and shucked his jumper, followed by the shirt beneath it, and then began to undo his zip. And, oh god yes, Sherlock knew what typically happened when he was seated or kneeling and John stood in front of him and undid his zip.

He slid to his knees on the floor, reaching for John’s hips, his mouth already watering in anticipation.

“ _No._ ”

Sherlock flinched, glancing up into John’s face to see that he was frowning, disapproving.

“Bad Sherlock. That’s very naughty behaviour. Not before I tell you to, do you understand?”

Sherlock blinked, confused and indignant. That was so unlike John—John who was always kind and encouraging when Sherlock was eager, who had never used a word like “naughty” to Sherlock when sex was involved.

But Sherlock wasn’t meant to be Sherlock now, was he? He was a puppy; John was his owner. That was the game that John was evidently intent on playing.

If Sherlock hated it, he knew, they would never do it again. And if Sherlock said to stop, John would stop immediately—probably even apologise profusely for springing it on Sherlock in the first place.

So Sherlock shoved aside the very human flash of indignation and ramped up his confusion, his hurt. He lowered his hands to the floor, ducked his head, and attempted his best dog-like whine. It was too low, a bit groany, but it wiped the disapproval from John’s expression all the same.

“Shh, hey,” John said, kneeling down. “It’s all right. You didn’t know. You need to be trained so you’ll learn what I expect of you. But we can work on that later, can’t we?”

_‘If today goes well,’_ Sherlock filled in. To show his approval, he leaned in and swiped his tongue up John’s cheek, which made John laugh and ruffle Sherlock’s hair with both hands. A bit like Sherlock used to do to Redbeard, actually, back when—

No. Not a good line of thought to follow, not if this was meant to turn sexual. Sherlock cut it swiftly off.

“There we go,” said John. “That’s fine. Here.” He reached towards Sherlock’s armchair and grasped the rubber ball, which had rolled from the arm to the seat. “Want to play?”

Sherlock shouldn’t have, probably, but it was part of the game. It was part of what John wanted, part of his attempt to prove he wasn’t dull.

Besides, Sherlock had done many, many odd things in his life—he’d even worn a collar before, although in public and as part of a disguise for a case—but he had never crawled after a toy ball. And at the moment, the idea—the unusualness of it—was intriguing. Almost as intriguing as the idea of being pissed on had seemed.

Sherlock sat back, his head lifted as though he was excited, and John tossed the ball into the kitchen, where it bounced against a cupboard door and fell to the floor. After a moment of hesitation, Sherlock crawled after it.

He felt hopelessly clumsy, trying to move briskly but only succeeding in plodding awkwardly. The kitchen lino was cold and hard beneath him, and the collar bobbed and pressed into his clavicles with every movement. Then he reached the ball, and the awkwardness worsened as he lowered his shoulders and tried to pick it up with his teeth. He failed the first time, knocking it with his chin and sending it rolling away. But on the second attempt, he succeeded in clamping his teeth firmly around the rubber and lifting it.

It was absurd, really, the little flash of pride he got from that simple action. It was hardly even a sham when he raised his chin in triumph as he carried the ball back to John.

John wasn’t knelt on the floor any longer; he’d moved to sit in Sherlock’s armchair. He was slouched low, his legs spread wide, and he smiled at Sherlock. It was a confident and self-assured, almost cocky, sort of smile. It made something flutter excitedly in Sherlock’s gut.

Sherlock crawled right up to the chair, put his hands on the leather between John’s spread thighs, and rose to his knees. Then he bent forwards and dropped the ball, a bit damp with saliva, into John’s lap.

“Perfect,” John said warmly. Sherlock swelled with pleasure. “Not as naughty as I thought, are you? You brought it right to me. Good, _good_ boy.”

He rubbed Sherlock’s head, fingertips scratching at the scalp, and if Sherlock had had a tail, he’d almost certainly be wagging it. He bowed his head, inviting John to carry on, and John obliged: stroking the back of Sherlock’s hair and down towards his nape. With a breathy moan, Sherlock bowed even further, so that he could rest his forehead on John’s inner thigh.

He could smell John there. The dried sweat, the heavy musk. Maybe even the very, very faint odour of residual piss, or perhaps that was simply Sherlock’s imagination, overactive now that John’s cock was so close and his trousers still unzipped. Sherlock nuzzled closer, inhaling deeply.

“Hey,” John said, laying his hand on Sherlock’s forehead and pushing him back. Sherlock’s dog-like whine of protest was only the tiniest bit embellished. “What did I say? None of that now. Actually, listen: I have a proposition.”

Sherlock whined again, but sat back obediently, his hands on his knees and his gaze on John, who smiled.

“Good boy. All right, here’s the thing. I have to piss. Quite badly, as it happens. It’s been… god, _hours_ since I’ve used the toilet. So we can take a little break here while I go to the loo, or—” John scooted closer, stroked Sherlock’s fringe away from his face, and licked his lips. “Or we can maybe try a bit of piss play. If you’re up for it.”

_Piss play._ Sherlock sucked in a breath and closed his eyes. _Oh, John_.

Anyone else might’ve experimented with one kink at a time, never wanting to get in too deep, but not John. Never John. In sex just as in a fight, apparently, John would always throw himself into the very thick of it and hope for the best.

_I adore you_ , Sherlock thought. He lay his head on John’s thigh—lower this time, so John wouldn’t mistake it for misbehaviour—and sighed happily when John continued to rake his fingers slowly through Sherlock’s hair. _With everything in me, I adore you._

“No pressure, obviously,” John was saying. “Not even sure _I’m_ all that into it, so if you’re not—”

Sherlock was hardly going to shy away after John had already thrown himself in, was he? “On me,” he muttered into John’s trouser leg.

“On you?”

“Mm. Yes.” Sherlock lifted his head and met John’s eyes solemnly. “Piss. _On me._ ” Then, when John’s gaze flickered round the flat, the corner of his lip pulling down—thinking about the mess, the hassle—Sherlock quickly added, “Right here. I’ll clean it up after.”

He said it perhaps a bit too eagerly, but Sherlock _felt_ eager. The idea—wearing John’s collar, John’s urine. Sitting in a puddle of it, a rubber ball in his mouth. It was territorial marking in its most primal form. And how John would treat him afterwards—praise him, bathe him. Adore him.

_Look at how I’ll debase myself for you, John_ , Sherlock thought _. Do you think I would do this for anyone else? Do you think I’ve ever wanted to be anyone else’s as much as I want to be yours?_

“Okay,” John said, scratching behind Sherlock’s ear, making Sherlock’s eyes flutter closed. “That’s… good. You’re being so good right now, Sherlock. So well-behaved.”

But then, instead of taking out his prick and letting go, as Sherlock fully expected, John took up the ball again and waggled it in front of Sherlock’s nose until he had Sherlock’s attention. “Do you want it?” he said with exaggerated enthusiasm.

An obvious cue. Sherlock sat back, his chin raised and his mouth open, and yipped, then made himself pant. It should have felt ridiculous, but it didn’t. Not with John staring at him so warmly, grinning so broadly, looking as though Sherlock was the centre of his universe.

“You want it, boy? Go get it!”

John pitched it into the kitchen, harder this time so that it hit the wall and bounced towards the loo. Sherlock yipped again and scampered after it.

They played fetch until Sherlock’s knees and palms were sore, his mouth and throat dry from panting, his usually quick, clear thoughts beginning to drift in and out of focus—and until John’s bodily self-control had been largely chipped away, leaving him grimacing and squirming, his left knee bouncing incessantly.

Finally, Sherlock carried the ball—drenched in saliva now, soaking his chin and his cheeks and his neck—back to the armchair to find John pushing his trousers and pants down to his calves, freeing his penis. It was uncircumcised, tannish in colour, and large despite still being mostly soft; the thick base of it was obscured by a mess of unkempt pubic hair.

Such a perfect, gorgeous cock—Sherlock had an entire folder of photos of it on his phone.

He rose up onto his knees and dropped the wet ball onto John’s thigh, where it rolled off and wedged itself between John’s bare leg and the chair arm. Then he bent over, burying his nose in John’s pubic hair, inhaling as deeply as he could—and moaning a second later when the scent hit him. Sweat both dried and fresh, that familiar heavy musk of human male genitalia, and—oh, yes—a bit of urine, long dried, just a little sour. His own cock, as soft as John’s, began immediately to thicken.

Sherlock ducked his head, dragged his nose along John’s length—to follow that scent and locate the source—and it twitched at the touch. John hissed in surprise; a drop of urine dribbled from the tip.

With another, deeper moan, Sherlock chased it, his mouth opening on instinct—any fluid that came from John’s prick in his presence was his, it belonged to whichever of Sherlock’s holes needed filled or whichever body part John wanted to mark—and whined when John shoved him sharply away.

“Not—no,” John said roughly, looking pained. He gripped his prick in one hand and used the other hand to haul himself to the edge of his seat, his body angled towards Sherlock. “Just—give me a minute.”

A flash of panic—John wouldn’t deny him this, he couldn’t be so cruel after Sherlock had been so good—and then Sherlock understood. A shy bladder, John fighting the part of himself that had been no doubt taught to wee only into a toilet. Sherlock tried to be patient. He shuffled backwards very slightly on his hands and knees, letting out a long pleading whine and wiggling his bottom as though he had a tail to wag.

_Please_ , he thought, growing desperate, _please do it. Mark me. Piss on me like I’m yours._ John’s territory, John’s home. His cock hardened further and began to ache.

Then, abruptly, another spurt of urine dribbled from John’s cock slit. Sherlock smelled it instantly, a sharp tang, and closed his eyes to better savour it. So he heard rather than saw when the dribble became a thin stream, and felt when it finally arced and hit him on his right collarbone. Although it was warm, it made him shiver as it dripped down his chest and abdomen and onto the floor.

“Ohhh,” John groaned, so relieved he sounded almost rapturous.

Sherlock opened his eyes just long enough to get a glimpse of him, his slackened jaw and half-lidded eyes, the tension leaving his shoulders like air from a tyre—before John aimed higher, the piss splashing on Sherlock’s jaw and then his cheekbones, his temple. All the way to the top of his head, and Sherlock squeezed his eyes closed once more as little rivers of warm urine drizzled over his forehead, his eyelids, his mouth. He licked his lips, curious: it was surprisingly bland, with a very faint salty aftertaste.

By the time that the stream of piss began to slow, Sherlock was wet from his hair to his knees, and the rug beneath him was rapidly growing damp. The leather collar round his neck was soaked. He smelt. Anyone who saw him like this would’ve no doubt wrinkled their nose and thought him repulsive.

Anyone except John.

“Oh my _god_ ,” John was saying. He sounded awed. Sherlock blinked the urine from his eyelashes to find that John looked it as well: wide-eyed, spellbound, like Sherlock was just as amazing when he was a piss-soaked dog as when he was a celebrated genius and detective. “Look at you. Such a good puppy. Good, beautifulSherlock. Come here.”

John reached for him, although he needn’t have bothered. Sherlock was already lunging towards him, bypassing his extended arm entirely in favour of bending over John’s lap and taking his soft, wet cock into his mouth.

He didn’t bother with finesse or technique. He swallowed John’s prick as deep down his throat as it would go and sucked until the faintly salty aftertaste of piss flooded his taste buds, until John was gasping like he was dying and gripping Sherlock’s hair like a lifeline, until John’s cock had hardened so much that Sherlock’s jaw ached and his throat was so full it felt like it would burst.

“Fuck,” John said, sounding strangled. “Oh, god, fuck. That’s—”

He gripped the back of Sherlock’s head, stopped it from bobbing and just held it in place, so that Sherlock’s lips were stretched wide around the root and his nose was deep in John’s pubic hair. Sherlock breathed through his nose and swallowed, tried not to gag and largely failed, and fucking loved it. How he was drooling all over himself, how his eyes began to sting and water, how _good_ and _well-behaved_ he was for taking it just like John wanted him to. He whimpered, and felt John’s fingers spasm in his hair.

“Good,” John moaned. “Fuck, so good. God, Sherlock.”

Suddenly, Sherlock was shoved away. A thick string of spit stretched between his lips and John’s cock, which was so pretty and red now, so thick and needy. Sherlock pouted and began to whine before he realised that John was stroking himself, the saliva helping his fist glide smoothly and quickly up and down his length. Jerking himself off, finishing himself.

Sherlock opened his mouth and stuck out his tongue, eager, although when John finally came, it was Sherlock’s cheeks, jaw, and chin that got the worst of it. Thick whitish spurts of ejaculate no doubt mixing with the drying remnants of urine on Sherlock’s skin as it slid down and dripped onto the floor.

John let Sherlock lick him clean, at least: cupped the side of Sherlock’s head sweetly and encouragingly while Sherlock milked the last little bit from the tip and then dragged his tongue slowly along the shaft, lapping up anything he might’ve missed.

“That’s it,” John murmured, breathless. “That’s my sweet puppy. My good Sherlock. Mmm. That feels nice.”

When Sherlock was finished, his thoughts were sluggish and hazy, and his limbs were heavy. He was vaguely aware that he was swaying almost drunkenly and moaning weakly while John stroked his face and kissed the top of his head, although he didn’t much care at the moment. He kept his chin inclined, his eyes on John, waiting.

“All right,” John said after a short silence. “I think my puppy deserves a reward for his good behaviour. For playing ball with me and taking my piss and my cock like such a good boy. Come here. Up a bit. Right there.”

He manoeuvred them both until Sherlock’s hands were on either side of John’s hips and he was straddling John’s right leg, just above where John’s trousers and pants were bunched round his ankles. Sherlock went readily, let himself be positioned like a doll, although he didn’t understand why he was being moved until John lifted his leg, slotting his warm hairy shin right against Sherlock’s cock and testicles.

Sherlock shuddered, moaning, and panted happily when John smiled at him and petted the hair at his nape.

“That’s it,” John said. “This is what puppies do, you know. Especially brilliant, gorgeous puppies like you who want to be good boys. They hump their masters’ legs like eager little tarts.”

_Yes_. Yes, of course they did. And Sherlock was a well-behaved puppy; John had said so. So he gripped John’s leg tightly between his thighs and humped like a good boy, until his lungs and thighs burned and he was grunting “uh, uh, uh” with every thrust.

“Ohhh yes,” John told him, still petting him sweetly. “You are my good boy, aren’t you? Can you come for me, sweetheart? Can you be my perfect, obedient puppy and make a mess of my leg?”

Sherlock could. Not easily, though—he was sobbing and shaking, lightheaded and sweating, before his cock finally gave in and began to pulse, shooting come up John’s shin and onto his own chest. Throughout it all, John continued to pet him, to murmur at him, to call him a good boy and tell him to “come on, come on”—even after Sherlock’s body had been wrung dry and he was limp and clinging to John’s leg.

“Come on, Sherlock,” he said, his voice even softer and tenderer than the fingers that raked through Sherlock’s filthy hair. “Come on. For me?”

Sherlock didn’t understand and didn’t understand, and then suddenly he did. With a breathy groan, he concentrated hard—which quickened his sluggish thoughts and cleared a bit of the haze from his mind—and managed to coax out a single spurt of urine, which dripped down John’s leg, through the streaks of his own come, and into John’s trousers and pants.

“There we go,” John said. “Perfect. Sweet, brilliant boy. Doesn’t that feel better?”

It did, a bit, although Sherlock’s bladder hadn’t been anywhere near full to begin with. He sighed in contentment and huddled closer, pressing his dirty chest against John’s knee and laying his wet head on John’s thigh. If John minded—and why should he, when he’d kissed Sherlock’s head of his own volition only a short while ago?—he gave no sign. He simply stroked Sherlock’s hair away from his face, taking care not to snag his fingers on any of the freshly matted curls.

They stayed that way for a long while, silent, and Sherlock grew drowsy and nearly fell into a doze until John finally spoke.

“So.” There was a smugness in his tone. “Still seem boring?”

Ah, that. Sherlock had forgotten, somehow, how this entire thing had started.

“It’s never boring with you,” Sherlock insisted. _Idiot_ , he didn’t say, although John probably heard it anyway.


End file.
